Born in Exile (20 page)

It was folly to spoil his enjoyment of country such as this by
dreaming impossible opportunities. The Warricombes could be nothing
to him; to meet with Buckland would only revive the shame long ago
outlived. After resting for a few minutes he turned back, passed
the silent house again, delighted himself with the wide view, and
so into the city once more, where he began to seek the remnants of
its old walls.

The next morning was Sunday, and he had planned to go by the
Plymouth train to a station whence he could reach Start Point; but
his mood was become so unsettled that ten o'clock, when already he
should have been on his journey, found him straying about the
Cathedral Close. A mere half-purpose, a vague wavering intention,
which might at any moment be scattered by common sense, drew his
steps to the door of the Cathedral, where people were entering for
morning service; he moved idly within sight of the carriages which
drew up. Several had discharged their freightage of tailoring and
millinery, when two vehicles, which seemed companions, stopped at
the edge of the pavement, and from the second alighted the young
ladies whom Godwin had yesterday observed; their male companion,
however, was different. The carriage in advance also contained four
persons: a gentleman of sixty, his wife, a young girl, and the
youth of yesterday. It needed but a glance to inform Godwin that
the oldest of the party was Mr. Warricombe, Buckland's father; ten
years had made no change in his aspect. Mrs. Warricombe was not
less recognisable. They passed at once into the edifice, and he had
scarcely time to bestow a keen look upon Sidwell.

That was a beautiful girl; he stood musing upon the picture
registered by his brain. But why not follow, and from a
neighbouring seat survey her and the others at his leisure? Pooh!
But the impulse constrained him. After all, he could not get a
place that allowed him to see Sidwell. Her companion, however, the
one who seemed to be of much the same age, was well in view.
Sisters they could not be; nothing of the Warricombe countenance
revealed itself in those handsome but strongly-marked features. A
beautiful girl, she also, yet of a type that made slight appeal to
him. Sidwell was all he could imagine of sweet and dignified; more
modest in bearing, more gracile, more—

Monday at noon, and he still walked the streets of Exeter. Early
this morning he had been out to the Old Tiverton Road, and there,
on the lawn amid the laurels, had caught brief glimpse of two
female figures, in one of which he merely divined Sidwell. Why he
tarried thus he did not pretend to explain to himself. Rain had
just come on, and the lowering sky made him low-spirited; he mooned
about the street under his umbrella.

And at this rate, might vapour away his holiday. Exeter was
tedious, but he could not make up his mind to set forth for the
sea-shore, where only his own thoughts awaited him. Packed away in
his wallet lay geological hammer, azimuth compass, clinometer,
miniature microscope,—why should he drag all that lumber about with
him? What to him were the bygone millions of ages, the hoary
records of unimaginable time? One touch of a girl's hand, one
syllable of musical speech,—was it not that whereof his life had
truly need?

As remote from him, however, as the age of the pterodactyl. How
often was it necessary to repeat this? On a long voyage, such as he
had all but resolved to take, one might perchance form
acquaintances. He had heard of such things; not impossibly, a
social circle might open to him at Buenos Ayres. But here in
England his poor origin, his lack of means would for ever bar him
from the intimacy of people like the Warricombes.

He loitered towards the South-Western station, dimly conscious
of a purpose to look for trains. Instead of seeking the time-tables
he stood before the bookstall and ran his eye along the titles of
new novels; he had half a mind to buy one of Hardy's and read
himself into the temper which suited summer rambles. But just as
his hand was stretched forth, a full voice, speaking beside him,
made demand for a London weekly paper. Instantly he turned. The
tones had carried him back to Whitelaw; the face disturbed that
illusion, but substituted a reality which threw him into
tremor.

His involuntary gaze was met with one of equal intensity. A man
of his own years, but in splendid health and with bright eyes that
looked enjoyment of life, suddenly addressed him.

'Godwin Peak—surely—?'

'Buckland Warricombe, no less surely.'

They shook hands with vigour, laughing in each other's faces;
then, after a moment's pause, Warricombe drew aside from the
bookstall, for sake of privacy.

'Why did we lose sight of each other?' he asked, flashing a
glance at Godwin's costume. 'Why didn't you write to me at
Cambridge? What have you been doing this half-century?'

'I have been in London all the time.'

'I am there most of the year. Well, I rejoice to have met you.
On a holiday?'

'Loitering towards Cornwall.'

'In that case, you can come and have lunch with me at my
father's house. It's only a mile or two off. I was going to walk,
but we'll drive, if you like.'

There was no refusing, and no possibility of reflection.
Buckland's hearty manner made the invitation in itself a thoroughly
pleasant one, and before Peak could sufficiently command his
thoughts to picture the scene towards which he was going they were
walking side by side through the town. In appearance, Warricombe
showed nothing of the revolutionary which, in old days, he aimed at
making himself, and his speech had a suavity which no doubt
resulted from much intercourse with the polished world; Godwin was
filled with envious admiration of his perfect physique, and the
mettle which kept it in such excellent vigour. Even for a sturdy
walker, it was no common task to keep pace with Buckland's strides;
Peak soon found himself conversing rather too breathlessly for
comfort.

'What is your latest record for the mile?' he inquired.

Warricombe, understanding at once the reference to his old
athletic pastime and its present application, laughed merrily, and
checked his progress.

'A bad habit of mine; it gets me into trouble with everyone.
By-the-bye, haven't you become a stronger man than used to seem
likely? I'm quite glad to see how well you look.'

The sincerity of these expressions, often repeated, put Godwin
far more at his ease than the first moment's sensation had
promised. He too began to feel a genuine pleasure in the meeting,
and soon bade defiance to all misgivings. Delicacy perhaps withheld
Warricombe from further mention of Whitelaw, but on the other hand
it was not impossible that he knew nothing of the circumstances
which tormented Godwin's memory. On leaving the College perchance
he had lost all connection with those common friends who might have
informed him of subsequent jokes and rumours. Unlikely, to be sure;
for doubtless some of his Whitelaw contemporaries encountered him
at Cambridge; and again, was it not probable that the younger
Warricombe had become a Whitelaw student? Then Professor Gale—no
matter! The Warricombes of course knew all about Andrew Peak and
his dining-rooms, but they were liberal-minded, and could forgive a
boy's weakness, as well as overlook an acquaintance's obscure
origin. In the joy of finding himself exuberantly welcomed by a man
of Buckland's world he overcame his ignoble self-consciousness.

'Did you know that we were in this part of the country?'
Warricombe asked, once more speeding ahead.

'I always thought of you in connection with Kingsmill.'

'We gave up Thornhaw seven years ago. My father was never quite
comfortable out of Devonshire. The house I am taking you to has
been in our family for three generations. I have often tried to be
proud of the fact, but, as you would guess, that kind of thing
doesn't come very natural to me.'

In the effort to repudiate such sentiment, Buckland distinctly
betrayed its hold upon him. He imagined he was meeting Godwin on
equal ground, but the sensibility of the proletarian could not thus
be deceived. There was a brief silence, during which each looked
away from the other.

'Still keep up your geology?' was Warricombe's next
question.

'I can just say that I haven't forgotten it all.'

'I'm afraid that's more than I can. During my Cambridge time it
caused disagreeable debates with my father. You remember that his
science is of the old school. I wouldn't say a word to disparage
him. I believe the extent of his knowledge is magnificent; but he
can't get rid of that old man of the sea, the Book of Genesis. A
few years ago I wasn't too considerate in argument, and I talked as
I oughtn't to have done, called names, and so on. The end of it
was, I dropped science altogether, having got as much out of it as
I needed. The good old pater has quite forgiven my rudeness. At
present we agree to differ, and get on capitally. I'm sure he'll be
delighted to see you. There are some visitors with us; a Miss
Moorhouse and her brother. I think you'll like them. Couldn't you
stay overnight?'

Godwin was unable to reply on the instant, and his companion
proceeded with the same heartiness.

'Just as you like, you know. But do stay if you can. On
Wednesday morning I must go back to town. I act as secretary to
Godolphin, the member for Slacksea.'

Peak's acquaintance with current politics was slight, but Mr.
Ellis Godolphin, the aristocratic Radical, necessarily stood before
his imagination with some clearness of outline. So this was how
life had dealt with Buckland. The announcement was made with a
certain satisfaction, as if it implied more than the hearer would
readily appreciate. Again there was a slight shrinking on Godwin's
part; it would be natural for him to avow his own position, and so
leave no room for misunderstandings, but before he could shape a
phrase Buckland was again questioning.

'Do you ever see any of the old fellows?'

'I have met one or two of them, by chance.'

As if his tact informed him that this inquiry had been a
mistake, Warricombe resumed the subject of his family.

'My brother Louis is at home—of course you can't remember him;
he was a youngster when you were at Thornhaw. The younger boy died
some years ago, a pony accident; cut up my father dreadfully. Then
there's my sister Sidwell, and my sister Fanny—that's all of us. I
can't quite answer for Louis, but the rest are of the old school.
Liberal enough, don't be afraid. But—well, the old school.'

As Godwin kept silence, the speaker shot a glance at him, keenly
scrutinising. Their eyes did not meet; Peak kept his on the
ground.

'Care much about politics nowadays?'

'Not very much.'

'Can't say that I do myself,' pursued Buckland. 'I rather
drifted into it. Godolphin, I daresay, has as little humbug about
him as most parliamentarians; we stick to the practical fairly
well. I shall never go into the House on my own account. But
there's a sort of pleasure in being in the thick of public
movements. I'm not cut out for debate; should lose my temper, and
tell disagreeable truths—which wouldn't do, you know. But behind
the scenes—it isn't bad, in a way.'

A longer pause obliged Godwin to speak of himself.

'My life is less exciting. For years I have worked in a
manufacturing laboratory at Rotherhithe.'

'So science has carried the day with you, after all. It used to
be very doubtful.'

This was a kind and pleasant way of interpreting necessity.
Godwin felt grateful, and added with a smile:

'I don't think I shall stick to it much longer. For one thing, I
am sick of town. Perhaps I shall travel for a year or two;
perhaps—I'm in a state of transition, to tell the truth.'

Buckland revolved this information; his face told that he found
it slightly puzzling.

'You once had thoughts of literature.'

'Long given up.'

'Leisure would perhaps revive them?'

'Possibly; but I think not.'

They were now quitting the town, and Peak, unwilling to appear
before strangers in a state of profuse perspiration, again
moderated his friend's speed. They began to talk about the
surrounding country, a theme which occupied them until the house
was reached. With quick-beating heart, Godwin found himself at the
gate by which he had already twice passed. Secure in the decency of
his apparel, and no longer oppressed by bashfulness, he would have
gone joyously forward but for the dread of a possible ridiculous
association which his name might revive in the thoughts of Mr. and
Mrs. Warricombe. Yet Buckland—who had no lack of kindly
feeling—would hardly have brought him here had the reception which
awaited him been at all dubious.

'If we don't come across anyone,' said Warricombe, 'we'll go
straight up to my room.'

But the way was not clear. Within the beautiful old porch sat
Sidwell Warricombe and her friend of the striking countenance, whom
Godwin now knew as Miss Moorhouse. Buckland addressed his sister in
a tone of lively pleasure.

'Whom do you think I have met and brought home with me? Here is
my old friend, Godwin Peak.'

Under the two pairs of female eyes, Godwin kept a calm, if
rather stern, face.

'I should have had no difficulty in recognising Mr. Peak,' said
Sidwell, holding out her hand. 'But was the meeting quite by
chance?'

To Godwin himself the question was of course directed, with a
look of smiling interest—such welcome as could not have been
improved upon; she listened to his reply, then presented him to
Miss Moorhouse. A slight languor in her movements and her voice,
together with the beautiful coldness of her complexion, made it
probable that she did not share the exuberant health manifest in
her two brothers. She conversed with mature self-possession, yet
showed a slight tendency to abstractedness. On being addressed, she
regarded the speaker steadily for an instant before shaping her
answer, which always, however trifling the subject, seemed
carefully worded. In these few moments of dialogue, Godwin reached
the conclusion that Sidwell had not much sense of humour, but that
the delicacy of her mind was unsurpassable.